


The Troubles

by SekritOMG



Category: South Park
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, Legos, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Microwaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SekritOMG/pseuds/SekritOMG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saturday in the Marsh-Broflovski household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Troubles

**Author's Note:**

> I asked Paramecie if I could write her something for her birthday, and improbably she said something about liking Stan and Kyle as parents in a previous fic of mine. So, here's a sequel to that. Happy birthday, Paramecie!
> 
> Check out her art here: http://paramecie.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art  
> Previous fic -- Keep On Doing What You Do, Craig/Kenny: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6629794/1/Keep-On-Doing-What-You-Do

As usual, Kyle blamed everything on his libido.

It was a Saturday morning in late January and the windows were caked in snow. It piled up on the ledges, on which Stan planted window boxes in the summer. Something about the sun trying to shine though the frost on the windows reminded Kyle of growing up, of lying in bed fitfully on the weekends and day-dreaming of Stan. That had been Kyle’s teenage ritual, touching himself under layers of fat blankets in his boxy childhood bedroom, mid-morning light struggling to illuminate the dark walls of his room through heavy curtains. Benji had that room now, and Kyle sometimes wondered if his eldest did the same. He was Kyle’s son — literally, biologically, not just within their family unit, but as far as everyone else was concerned. He also lingered in his room on the weekends. Kyle looked over at the clock; it was only 7.

Or 6:53. Not even 7 a.m. and Noah was up, banging on the door. In a huffy little voice he jiggled the knob (Noah had been told never to open the door without permission), saying, “Dad? Abba? Daddy?” How was Stan sleeping through this?

Pushing himself out of bed, Kyle shrugged on whatever was around — Stan’s sweatpants? Why not. They were on the floor, discarded last night in an aborted attempt to get some kind of sex going. It had almost worked, too, until Noah had come and pounded on the door, crying that if he died in the middle of the night he would go to hell because he hadn’t gotten his last rites. Kyle had gotten up, fumbled for a robe, and explained to Noah that hell did not exist, and that even if it did Kenny claimed to have been there and that it wasn’t so bad at all. “And you’re half-Jewish,” Kyle had insisted, “and Jews don’t believe in hell anyway.”

“What does that mean?” Noah had demanded.

“Well, it means that you don’t have to believe in hell, either.”

“But Sandra said—”

“Sandra’s never coming back here,” Kyle insisted, “so don’t worry about it.”

“There’s no hell?”

“ _I_ don’t believe there’s a hell.”

“Then what happens when we die?”

Kyle has slumped against Noah’s headboard, conscious of his erection wilting away. The bed was shaped like a sailboat and Noah had inherited it from Benji. At 13 Benji was above such things, but Noah was somewhat babyish. Kyle couldn’t believe that at 6, Noah still slept in his boat bed. “I believe nothing happens when we die.” Kyle had wrapped Noah up in his arms and tussled his fine, staticky hair. It was black and thick like Stan’s, and Kyle had grinned at that despite his muddled disappointment and resentment. “Except that you’ll have a family and friends who will miss you very much, and will remember you and talk about how much they love you. Maybe you’ll have grandchildren and great-grandchildren. So in way, you’ll live on, because you’ll always be remembered.”

“Won’t they be sad?”

“They’ll be sad,” Kyle had promised, “though they’ll also be happy to have known you!”

“So there’s no hell?”

“I don’t believe there’s a hell.”

“So Sandra was wrong?”

“I think Sandra’s wrong, yeah.”

“What if she’s right?” Noah had pressed.

“I’m sure she’s not,” Kyle had promised, “because I think Sandra’s an idiot.”

Noah had laughed at that, and Kyle had said, “I love you” and “good night” and “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I won’t die in the night?”

“I promise you won’t die in the night,” Kyle had insisted. “Honest.” Despite the finality of their conversation, Kyle sat on the edge of the bed and watched Noah pass into sleep, stroking his hair.

Padding back to bed, Kyle was unsurprised to find that Stan had finished himself off and was now reading the draft of Kyle’s piece for the next _Exquisite Corpse_. The issue was on color theory (amazing that they hadn’t done that already) and Kyle had written about growing up in a primary-colored world and then traveling to Utrecht to see the Rietveld-Shröderhuis. He was trying to use this discrepancy to blur the lines between “normality” and queerness through the lens of self-perception. (Kyle wasn’t sure if the argument was working, or if he even had an argument.) Any sense Kyle had of wanting to finish what they’d started died when Kyle saw that, because the door had been left open, the dog was now snoozing on the bed. That was it. Kyle couldn’t get off in front of the dog. He was totally soft now, anyway.

Stan had said, “Sorry,” and set the papers aside, and leaned into Kyle to kiss him.

Kyle had accepted the kiss idly and then pulled back to announce, “That’s the last time we let anyone your mother knows from church babysit.”

“Maybe Benji’s old enough to babysit.”

“Old enough?” Kyle had scoffed. “Stan, he’s 13.”

“My sister babysat for me when I was 13.”

“Wow.” Kyle had unbelted the robe and flung it across the room. He had babysat for his younger brother from age 8, and in Kyle’s estimation it hadn’t gone so hot. “That’s pretty compelling.”

Here the dog had gotten up and walked around in a circle before settling in again at Stan’s feet, licking his own balls. Lucky dog, Kyle had thought to himself. He found himself thinking that all the time.

“Fine, well, maybe next week Kenny won’t be busy.”

“Yeah, well.” Kenny had a new boyfriend with a scooter and now spent all of his time scooting around on the back of that guy’s Vespa, taking renegade photographs of the queer arts scene in Denver, a thing that mainly existed only where Kenny insisted it did. “Seems unlikely,” Kyle had concluded.

Turning the light off, Stan had asked, “I could — suck you. Do you want that?”

“I’m okay,” Kyle had said.

So much for Friday date night.

Now Noah was ruining Saturday morning, too, though perhaps that was unfair, seeing as Stan was still asleep. Kyle tried to arrange the sweats so that they masked his arousal. He gave up when Noah pounded on the door and jiggled the knob again and whined, “ _Daddyyyyyy_ ” like he was 3.

“Yes?” Kyle asked, flinging the door open. “Can I help you, honey?” Gently, he pushed Noah of the threshold, pulling the door shut.

“I’m hungry,” Noah moaned.

“It’s not even 7,” said Kyle. “Don’t you want to watch some cartoons before breakfast?”

“No. Just breakfast.”

“I think something good might be on.”

“I’m hungry,” Noah repeated. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s sleeping,” said Kyle. “Let’s get breakfast.”

“I want Dad.”

“He’s asleep.”

“Aaaaaaabba,” Noah insisted. This time it was directed at Kyle, who restrained himself from smashing his own head into the wall. “Those aren’t your pants.”

“They’re Daddy’s pants,” Kyle said. “Aren’t you smart? Good.”

“Why are you wearing Daddy’s pants?”

“Daddies share clothing sometimes. Like how you got Benji’s bed? In a family, you share.”

“I don’t want to share. I want my own! I want breakfast.”

They were standing in the hallway, Noah’s little eyes glaring up at Kyle. He needed to be fucked _so badly_. It had been like four days. Hard to believe they were having another one. This was literally the first moment in Kyle’s 13 years as a parent when he felt even a twinge of envy directed toward those people who didn’t have children before age 30. Kyle wasn’t even 40 yet. Not until May. He thought of Craig Tucker, a guy in town Kyle had known his whole life. That guy had one _in high school_ and two more before 35. Craig and his wife, Bebe Stevens, both seemed so insanely old. Since their separation Craig had gained 50 pounds and looked awful. If that ever happened to Kyle he would die, just die. Children were supposed to fonts of vitality! Not baggage that dragged one prematurely into old age. Kyle thought of Stan’s body, which was wonderful and powerful and still made Kyle hard. Here he was with his young son in the hallway thinking about sex.

Noah was hopping up and down, chanting, “Breakfast, breakfast,” intentionally baby-like. Benji had been just the same, precocious and adorably juvenile.

Kyle an idea. “Stay here,” he said, rubbing the top of Noah’s head as if he were the family dog. (Rhaegar must have wandered downstairs in the night; maybe he was sleeping, as he was wont to do, by the old furnace in the old basement, the one Kyle had played in with his brother as a child. And later — other things.) The dog would need to be fed, too. He was Benji’s dog, and Kyle marched to Benji’s door. On it was a hand-drawn sign that said “Keep Out!!!” which was generally directed at Noah and Noah’s friends and Kyle’s nieces and nephews, who came over most weekends — though not today, thankfully. Tomorrow, probably, so Stan and his brother-in-law could watch play-off football. It was the only thing they could discuss without shouting. The sign was a couple of years old and yellowed, curling at the edges.

It was important to knock on Benji’s door before opening. “Hey,” Kyle said, through the door. “Good morning, Benji. I’m coming on.” He knocked again and opened the door.

When Kyle was a child this had been his bedroom. They had built an expansion on this house when they had been expecting Noah (though of course they hadn’t known the baby would be _Noah_ , at the time), and in some ways the biggest relief in that had not been the extra space but in Kyle and Stan getting their own bedroom, one that hadn’t been occupied by Kyle’s parents. Kyle still found it jarring to see his 13-year-old son asleep in the same corner of this room in which Kyle had slept as a kid, or had rattled the bars on his crib. It was a convenient and affordable trade-off, especially considering the costs of in-vitro and the commute into Denver.

It was a relief to find that, contrary to Kyle’s expectations, Benji was not masturbating. He was merely asleep, splayed out in the full-size bed he had just gotten for his birthday. Kyle repeated, “Hey,” and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

Stirring, Benji grabbed a pillow and smashed it over his own face.

“Hey.” Kyle lifted the pillow. He saw that Benji was squinting, his long hair a mess in his face. “Wake up, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Benji groaned. His grip tightened on the pillow.

Kyle had to smirk at that. “I’m waking you up,” he said. “You’re going to shul today.”

This caused Benji to sit right up. The pillow fell onto the floor. Benji shook his head. “What?”

“For your bar mitzvah,” Kyle said.

“I have a lesson tomorrow!” Benji was rubbing his eyes. He could be ornery when he was tired. “I don’t want to go to shul.”

“You need to go three times before next month,” Kyle reminded Benji, “and I don’t think high holidays count.”

“Yes they do,” Benji said. “I went with Grandma and Grandpa in Florida. That was like, a week of services. And Rosh Hashanah!”

“Rosh Hashanah only counts as one day and I think the synagogue means Saturday morning _torah_ services, since that’s what you do for your bar mitzvah.”

“I don’t even want a bar mitzvah,” Benji insisted, though he very much did. He loved performing and had written a hammy speech to read aloud at the party. Stan and Kyle agreed it was inherently stupid but Benji made it sound somehow charming. Kyle’s parents were generously footing the bill for said party, at the Cherry Creek Marriott. In the back of Kyle’s mind he nervously anticipated something disastrous happening, like the baby coming three months early and interrupting the party. _That_ kind of disaster. The kind that would be traumatizing for Benji at the time and happy for the family in general down the road.

“So get up,” Kyle said, standing himself to open the blinds. Being on another side of the house, the side that faced east, sunlight exploded into the room, poor Benji curling away from it and toward the wall. “First you’re going to make your brother breakfast.”

“I am not,” Benji moaned.

“Yes, you are. Come on. Let’s go. I’m not leaving this room until I see both feet on the floor.” Kyle stood against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He waited a moment. Where was Noah? Kyle hoped he was still out in the hall. Kyle waited another moment. “Come on, Benji,” he insisted. “You can make anything you want for breakfast.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah,” Kyle promised. He was very hard now, excited to wake Stan up and get to sex. “Literally anything in the whole house.”

Groaning, Benji twisted his body around and set a foot on the floor. He could be trying, and decided to test Kyle’s patience by waiting the maximum possible amount of time to put the second foot down.  “Okay,” Benji announced. “Two feet on the floor.”

“I meant standing up.”

“You _said_!”

This was where Kyle gave up. He glanced down at his thighs and saw his dick threatening to push the waistband of Stan’s pants down. “Okay,” said Kyle. “Have it your way.” He stepped out into the hall. To his relief there was Noah, playing with Rhaegar. Though no longer a puppy, the dog wasn’t yet 3, and he was energetic. Noah was rubbing Rhaegar’s belly and saying, “Good puppy, nice puppy.”

“Hey Noah,” said Kyle. “Your brother’s being silly. I think you and Rhaegar should get him out of bed.”

Noah burst to his feet, his little pajama top flapping up. The dog jumped up, too, and began to circle Noah’s feet. “I’m gonna wake him up!”

“Yes, that’s your job! Get him out of bed. You guys can have anything you want for breakfast.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Noah’s eyes lit up, wide, and he gaped at Kyle. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “Really!”

With a mad dash, Noah sped into Benji’s room, the dog padding along after. From the hallway, Kyle heard barking, and Noah shouting, “Wake up! Wake up! Abba says wake up!”

“Oh my god!” Benji cried. “Get out, go away, I’m coming, go away!”

Before anyone could spill back out into the hallway, Kyle dashed around the corner and back into bed. He did not often lock the door, because what if Noah needed him? But Benji was 13 now, like Stan had insisted last night. Benji was a good kid. Benji would take care of it. Kyle locked the door behind him.

Peeling the pants off, Kyle tossed them away. They fell at the foot of the mattress. Kyle took his dick in hand. He was dripping, which was good. He would wake Stan up just like this, his naked body clinging to Stan’s. He pulled back the mass of covers, and slid in. Stan’s eyes clenched tighter and he buried his face into the pillow. Kyle suppressed the reminder of Benji in this gesture.

“Good morning,” Kyle said. He glanced at the clock and saw it was still only 7:15. He brought his lips to Stan’s forehead, kissing him, and Kyle smoothed back Stan’s beautiful hair with the palms of his hands. He kissed Stan’s lips, and rubbed his nose into Stan’s full beard. “Wake up, wake up,” Kyle insisted.

“What time is it?” Stan asked, drowsy. His eyes were still clenched shut.

“Time I got fucked,” said Kyle. After so much time with the kids, it felt needlessly vulgar. But something about it was arousing, and Stan opened his eyes.

“Yeah?” Stan had dull blue eyes, and he always seemed half-asleep, even when awake.

“I took care of the kids,” Kyle bragged. “Benji’s making breakfast.”

“Yeah?”

“So we have like — 20 minutes? Half an hour? I need it so bad, Stanley, I’m so empty and I want to be so full of you.”

“Oh my god.”

Kyle felt down for Stan’s cock, which was hard now, too. Kyle brought both of theirs together in his hand, squeezing. “I wanted this all night. Even when I was sleeping." Kyle's voice was low. The house was larger now, but he had childhood memories of his parents' voices carrying, of him or Ike catching them in bed. Noah would have no idea that Stan and Kyle were having sex; Benji might cotton on, though Kyle assumed there was a measure of plausible deniability in catching your parents having sex. Something about this was hot, though, provided they _weren't_ caught.

"We need some lube," Stan said, and he rolled over to fish around in the top drawer of his bedside table. Kyle knew what was in there: a bunch of junk Stan had saved (programs from the school holiday pageant; empty juice boxes; loose change; ugly rocks he'd picked up out walking and held onto for sentimental reasons) and a sticky bottle of Uranus lubricant. The name made Kyle feel dirty, though he preferred it to other lubes, especially since this one was meant for ass play. Something about the dirtiness was arousing, though. Kyle fingered himself as Stan slicked his hands and then grabbed for Kyle's dick.

"Not _me_." Kyle hissed, angling his hips away from Stan. "If you touch me I'll come."

"Isn't that the idea?"

"I want to come after you fuck me."

"What if we came at the same time?" Stan asked.

"That'd be cool." Kyle thought about it. It rarely happened. He tended not to place a lot of value on it because it happened so infrequently, but he'd enjoy it if it did. "It's not gonna happen."

"It might," Stan said. "It could." Kyle could see Stan's hands working under the covers as he slicked himself.

"I'm so ready," Kyle whispered. "Really."

"Why are you whispering?"

Kyle looked over his shoulder. "Well, the kids--"

"They're fine." Stan wrapped an arm around Kyle's chest and at the same time yanked Kyle down, and they both collapsed onto the mattress.

It was lazy sex between two tired people, and Kyle loved it for what it was: very sweet and very intimate, Stan's breath warm on Kyle's ear, his hands on Kyle's hips. Stan moved in incremental thrusts, slow and deliberate. On the other hand, Kyle had been fantasizing about explosions, of Stan all but hammering Kyle into the bed with deep thrusts that left Kyle reeling. Their actual first time together had been in a bathroom stall, with Kyle enthroned upon Stan's thighs. Kyle always wanted to recreate this. Perhaps he could do without the toilet part, but the thrusting had been so hot and so deep, Stan gliding against Kyle's prostate and all but lifting Kyle up and down, the sound of Kyle's ass slapping against Stan's skin, the sound of the plastic toilet seat clanging against the ceramic of the bowl. (Then Kenny had come in and said, "Oh my god," turned tail, and fled, just as Kyle was coming. Perhaps this was where he got his fear of being interrupted. Though other people's sex acts rolled off Kenny like they meant nothing to him, Kyle feared little Noah might be scarred for life.)

This was in many ways the opposite of that moment. Here they were in their bed, dead of winter, Stan fucking Kyle half-asleep, quilts and duvet covers muffling everything. Kyle closed his eyes and thought about when, if ever, he might get his perfect sex, uninhibited and hard and domineering. Then Stan was saying, "I'm gonna come," in the same strained breath he'd uttered it that first time. His hips snapped back, emptying whatever he hadn't jerked out the night before.

Now that Stan had come Kyle reached for his own erection, pulling on it and sighing as his ass clenched around Stan's softening dick. Stan buried his nose in Kyle's hair and began to pull out; Kyle peeked at the clock. Six minutes from start to finish. He yawned and grabbed one of Stan's hands, hugging it to his chest. "I love you," Kyle said in a murmur, tugging on Stan's fingers. "Thanks." The longer, more drawn-out couplings of their distant past had passed into memory when Benji was born, though six minutes was far better than they’d managed to do lately. It made Kyle wistful and sad, missing the way they’d fucked in their early and mid-20s, as if sex were a contest they might win — against someone else, or each other, or the general puritanical doubts of everyone they knew, Kyle wasn’t sure.

Stan’s hand curled around Kyle’s thigh and he squeezed, groping for Kyle’s ass. “You too,” he agreed, kissing Kyle’s hair like it was precious silk or something, spun gold. Actually it was filthy, and Kyle hated that Stan wasn’t discerning enough to know it. He needed a shower, badly. If only he weren’t so tired. He had slept well last night, eight collective hours despite Noah’s interruption, but the cottony haze of his climax force him to yawn another, “I love you,” eyes drifting shut. Sometimes, if he passed out right after sex, the afterglow would accompany him into sleep and he would dream he was coming again. Those were rare, yet Kyle loved it. Stan seemed not to be falling asleep, and he kept playing with Kyle’s hole, slicking a finger around it, through the sticky-slippery run-off of their sex.

“You’re all full of my come,” Stan said, in a sing-songy way. “I came in you.”

“I know, I got it,” Kyle muttered. He pulled a pillow over his eyes.

“You sure did get it.”

“Ugh.” Kyle yanked the pillow off his own face. “If you’re felling playful, can you walk the dog?”

“I — yeah? I guess I could.”

Stan always acted like a huge baby when it was time to get up, even if he’d had a ton of sleep and just got laid. He grunted like it was awful being separated from bed, or maybe from Kyle. He stood up to stretch, grinning down at Kyle as he rolled over into the warmth of the bed where Stan had just vacated it. Catching Kyle staring, Stan said, “I’m going to step at 4. Do you want to come?”

“No, I don’t want to come. That class is so gay.”

“It’s not gay,” Stan insisted, though it was in fact a step class at a gay gym and was well-attended by gay men Kyle forced himself not to be jealous of. He did very much enjoy Stan’s body, which made the whole thing seem worth it.

“Guess what’s gay, though,” Kyle said, giving up on the idea of even a few more minutes of sleep. He now felt fully disengaged from the sexual fog he’d found himself in a moment earlier. Now he was roused. “I told Benji I was going to take him to synagogue today.”

“Cool,” Stan said. He was wandering around the room, looking for his shoes. “Um, why?”

“I don’t know!” Kyle sat up, hugging a pillow. “Oh, fuck it, I was like — have to get this kid out of bed _somehow_. So he could watch Noah and we could—”

From downstairs, something popped. An ironic shattering noise interrupted Kyle, though it was muffled by the distance. It had come from the kitchen. The dog was barking, too.

“What?” Stan asked. “Oh — ugh. Crap.” He grabbed something from the floor, those sweats of his Kyle had been wearing before. He slipped them on, not bothering to clean his dick off. Kyle winced at this and slid out of bed, too. He scanned the carpet — Stan’s shoes, Stan’s boxers, magazine galleys (Kyle reminded himself to look at those today, for real) … here was a pair of his jeans, slung over a hassock. He slid them on without jeans, cringing when he realized he had just dirtied them with post-sex butt output. He shrugged and ran out the door, catching up to Stan on the stairs.

“Maybe that wasn’t a great idea,” Stan said, clasping hands over his half-hard dick.

“What wasn’t?”

“The — this.”

The kitchen was mostly fine, except for the microwave, which was wide-open, light on, the walls splattered with multiple organic colors of goo and … glass shards?

“What the hell?” Stan asked. The dog was lapping at the mess.

“Daddy!” said Noah. He pointed at Stan. “Do you know Abba was wearing your pants?”

“Um — yeah, I do, what the hell?”

“Everything’s fine,” said Benji. He was leaning over the counter with his hands clasped, as if his brother wasn’t standing in a pile of melting food and what appeared to be a broken tumbler, the kind Stan drank beer out of. “Nothing to see here.”

“Noah, get out of there!” Kyle barked. Then Noah took a step forward and Kyle said, “Actually—stop! Stay there.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to look at your feet,” Kyle said. Um, Stan, can you—”

“Yeah, hold up.” Stan whistled at the dog, who padded out after Stan, maybe toward the yard.

“Don’t worry,” said Kyle, not to either of the children but more to himself. “Daddy will be back soon.”

“Where’s he going?” Noah asked.

Honestly, Kyle wasn’t sure what he’d sent Stan to do. Choosing not to answer the question, he knelt in front of Noah and said, “Honey, grab my shoulder for support so I can look at your feet.”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure you’re not cut and there’s no glass under there.” His feet were covered with — chocolate syrup? They were sure sticky.

“There’s no glass,” Benji insisted. “We’re fine here. Thanks for your interest.”

“Thanks for not blowing up our house,” said Kyle. “What were you guys even doing?” Satisfied with the condition of Noah’s feet, he lofted the boy into a seat at the counter. “Don’t come downstairs without shoes,” he said, waggling his finger in Noah’s face.

“You should’ve been here and seen it,” Noah said. “It was awesome.”

“What was awesome?” Kyle asked. “What am I missing?”

“You didn’t miss anything,” said Benji. “We’re cool.”

“You’re not cool! You’re going to tell me what you did.” Kyle hunched down and inspected the mess. “What was in this?” He picked up a sizeable hunk of glass, and held it aloft for Benji to look at.

“Um.”

“Peanut butter!” said Noah. “Hot fudge.”

“Not _hot fudge_ , stupid,” Benji corrected, “it was chocolate sauce.”

“What else?” Kyle asked. “Don’t call your brother stupid, really, that’s _awful_.”

His children seemed to look at each other.

“Benjamin!”

Benji rolled his eyes, sighing, but he answered anyhow, demonstratively counting off on his fingers, “Eggs, peanuts, maple syrup, honey, sugar, corn syrup, um — brown sugar?”

“Ew,” said Kyle. “Why were you making that? In a beer glass?”

“I dunno,” said Benji. “It was a big cup?”

“These cups aren’t microwave-safe!” Kyle pointed at the biggest shard, which he’d put down on the counter.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“How was _I_ supposed to know that?” Noah echoed.

“Oh, shush, you know you weren’t supposed to know that,” Kyle said to him. “Come on, Benji, you’re smarter than putting this in the microwave.”

“Nope!” Benji smiled, tightly. “I’m not.”

“Have you _ever_ seen me or Daddy put one of these in the microwave?”

“No—”

“Then why—”

“Hey.” Stan came padding back into the room, this time with a black T-shirt on. He had brought a wet hand towel and a roll of paper ones, a spray bottle of glass cleaner, bandages, a heavy-duty garbage bag, the kind into which they raked their autumn leaves. “Okay, here we go,” he said, handing the Windex to Benji.

“What do I do with this?” he asked.

“You know,” said Kyle, trying to sound stern. This was the hardest part of the whole parenting thing: _he_ had fucked up, and now to maintain a façade of authority he was going to have to turn it back on his kid and punish him. “Clean this shit up.”

“You swore,” said Noah. “Oh man.” He was grabbing at Stan’s hair as Stan tried to wipe the bottoms of Noah’s feet off.

“Hey,” said Stan. “Sit tight, honey. You’re filthy.”

“This floor is filthy,” said Kyle. “Let’s go, Benji. _Now_. Why are you gaping at me? Come on—”

“I want my breakfast!” Noah announced.

“Let’s get you clean first,” Stan said, rubbing vigorously between Noah’s little toes. Kyle noticed now that it was time to clip Noah’s toenails. He couldn’t do it himself yet.

Benji was still gaping at Kyle with disbelief. “Do I still have to go to shul?” he asked.

Kyle thought for a moment. He hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. Benji hadn’t, either. They would surely put it off for a week. “You don’t _get_ to go _anywhere_. You are _so_ grounded.”

Benji’s eyes went wide. He had mastered Stan’s sister’s best, most painful look of disgust. It was always weird seeing this on Benji’s face, though she was his biological mother. “For how long?”

“A week,” Stan said, without missing a beat.

“Oh,” said Benji, ”only one week?”

“We’re taking the Xbox out of your room,” Stan added.

“You lose!” said Noah.

“No one really lost,” said Kyle. “At least, no one lost a toe. Oh my god.” He hefted Noah into his arms. The boy was really too big to carry, and Kyle put him down on the floor. “Let’s have a bath.”

“Then can I have breakfast?”

“ _I_ will make breakfast,” said Stan. “Once the kitchen’s clean.”

“I want my peanut butter eggs!” said Noah.

“Those were mine,” Benji muttered.

Kyle paused in the doorway, looking back at the half-cooked eggs dripping out of the microwave.

“No one’s eating peanut butter eggs,” he said. “That’s so gross. Come on, honey, let’s bathe.” He swatted Noah on the butt, and Noah sped ahead to the stairs.

~

Stan took Benji to the gym with him, leaving Noah and Kyle alone for the afternoon. They walked to the park through the snow with the dog, Kyle bringing his proofs. Though there was snow on the ground the forecast did not call for more until around midnight. Benji trudged alongside Kyle, making very slow steps, despite the fact that the ground was more or less shoveled. The park was only a few blocks away, but Noah was easily tired and probably wouldn’t be there for long. Despite the snow, it was very sunny. Kyle liked that.

At the corner of Bonanza and Oakley, near where Stan’s parents still lived, an SUV pulled up and the driver rolled down the window and waved Kyle over. It was Bebe Stevens. “Let’s say hi to Bebe,” Kyle said.

“Who’s Bebe?” Noah asked.

“You know Bebe,” said Kyle. “She’s a room coordinator for Benji’s class.”

“Boring,” said Noah.

“I know.” Kyle tiptoed with Benji over to the curb. It bothered him that Bebe had shut her engine off. “Hey, Bebe,” he said. Peering into her car, Kyle spotted her daughter in there. Kyle could never remember her name, but, it didn’t matter. She had Bebe’s robust coloring and hair identical to her older brothers and father. She must be — well, she was probably not that much older than Noah, maybe 8 or 9.

“Hi, Kyle,” she said, in a cautious kind of way. “Whatcha doing?”

“Taking Noah to the park.”

“Hi, Noah,” Bebe said. “How old are you now?”

“I’m 7,” said Noah. “How old are _you_?”

“The same age as Kyle,” said Bebe.

“You guys want to come to the park?”

“No,” said Bebe, though she didn’t say it in an unfriendly way. “We’re just on our way to Craig’s.”

“Yeah?” Kyle asked. “How’s Craig?”

“Who cares,” said the girl.

“He’s fine,” said Bebe. Her eyes narrowed. She cleared her throat. “How’s Kenny McCormick?”

“Well, he’s — good, I guess. He’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Oh god,” said Bebe. ”Who is it this time? Clyde Donovan? Butters? Um — that DogPoo kid?”

“Who?”

“You know, that kid from school.”

“Kid from school?” Kyle knew exactly who she was talking about. “Look, no, it’s some biker dude, I don’t know him.”

“He doesn’t bring this guy to your office or — whatever?”

“Man, Bebe, I don’t know.”

“DogPoo is a dumb name,” said Noah. “I’m gonna name my dog DogPoo when I get a dog.”

“If you’re naming a dog ‘DogPoo’ you’re not mature enough to be responsible for a dog,” said Kyle, “and Daddy would agree with me.”

Noah giggled to himself.

“We’re gonna be late,” said the little girl, “and Dad’s gonna flip.”

“No he’s not,” said Bebe. She twisted the ignition. “He can wait. Look, I’ll see you at the bake sale.”

“I know,” said Kyle, though he had forgotten about the bake sale. “Well, it was — good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Say hi to Stan.”

“Say hi to — Thomas. I hope he’ll come to the bar mitzvah.”

“Maybe!” She gave a condescending wave, as if she were dismissing him. The window rolled up and Kyle stood there clutching Noah’s hand as she drove away.

“That’s an unhappy person,” Kyle said to Noah as they were crossing the street.

“Why?”

“Well, because she’s more interested in other people than she ought to be,” said Kyle. “And she holds grudges. Happy people don’t do that. Maybe she’s depressed.”

“Oh,” said Noah. He let go of Kyle’s hand when they were across the street. “Can I go on the slide? I want to slide into the snow.”

“Sure!” said Kyle. He wondered if Noah was too old for Kyle to wait at the bottom and catch him.

~

Benji shut himself up in his room immediately after dinner, and Kyle wondered if he planned to while away the time masturbating. That was what Kyle would have done.  Of course, Kyle would have had all of his homework done on Friday afternoon at age 13, leaving himself all weekend to masturbate. Now, scooping some pumpkin ice cream into little Pyrex dishes for himself and Stan and Noah to eat, he hoped Noah would just go to sleep after dessert and leave Kyle to soak by himself in the bath so he could jerk off. He fucking deserved it.

Unfortunately, Noah wanted to play with Legos. He had swallowed these in the past, so Stan and Kyle sat with him in front of the TV, missing the thing Stan had put on to watch, a hockey game. It wasn’t a hockey game with Denver in it, so Kyle decided he had no responsibility to pay attention, choosing instead to help Noah construct their house from Legos.

Every time something happened in the game, the crowds would cheer, and Stan would look up and ask, “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” said Kyle.

“Yeah, Dad, nothing,” Noah scoffed. “Who cares?”

“Where are we going to put the baby’s room?” Kyle asked when they had cobbled together a top floor with some red and gray flat 10-by-5 pieces that had come with some castle set Benji had once completed at age 6 or so. (He had been something of a prodigy with Legos.)

“I don’t want a baby’s room,” Noah said. “I want two rooms.”

“Sorry,” said Kyle. “We’re having a baby so we need to put the baby somewhere.”

“You’re not having a baby,” said Noah, “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, _I’m_ not having a baby,” said Kyle, “thank god. But you know the baby’s coming. Let’s pick out a room for her.” He pointed to some corner of the Lego structure. It looked nothing like their house. “How about here?”

“I want that to be my room.”

“Okay.” Kyle rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. “Where’s my room?”

“You have to live in the basement.”

“I don’t feel the need to live in the basement,” Kyle said. He thought about the basement, how he’d had his first real kiss down there, with Kenny. He wished it had been with Stan. He had cried afterward like a stupid baby because it hadn’t been with Stan. At least he’d let Kenny go home first. He was also proud of pushing Kenny’s hand away from the fly of his jeans and saying, “I’m not a slut!” Now he was horny again.

“We could put the baby in the basement,” Noah suggested.

“Wait, what?” Stan asked. He was nursing a Fat Tire and had his lip touching the rim of the bottle. Now Kyle wanted to die, it was so hot. “You mean, of the Lego house?”

“No, our basement.” Noah pointed in the general direction of the door that led to the basement.

Stan laughed. “Eh, that’s funny,” he said. He took a sip of beer.

“We’re not putting the baby in the basement,” said Kyle. “We have a room picked out for him or her.” He tried to read Noah’s stony reaction. “In our real house. Do you want to see?”

“Not really.” He stood up, hoisting the Lego house into the air. Some bricks fell from its bottom. They must not have been well-secured. “I’m taking my house upstairs.”

“If you insist!” said Kyle.

Stan set his beer down on the coffee table. “But pick up these other ones first, okay?” Stan pointed at the mess on the floor. “Someone’s going to step on these and need stitches.”

“We already narrowly avoided that today.”

“Fine!” Noah huffed. “But I’ll put my house upstairs first.”

“No way,” said Kyle. “Pick this shit up.”

“You said shit.”

“I know.” Kyle reached out for Stan’s Fat Tire. “I’m an adult, honey, I earned it.”

~

It wasn’t until Kyle had come and he had watched Stan swallow it that Kyle took a bath. It was only in the bath, drinking another beer, that he remembered what he had forgotten to tell Stan. Almost excited, he hopped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Hey,” he said, drying his hair. “Guess who I saw today?”

“Who?” Stan asked. They knew basically everyone in South Park.

“Bebe!”

“Oh.” Stan was reading Kyle’s draft now, this time for real. “Uh, how’s she?”

“Well, to be completely honest, I don’t think she’s too well.”

“Oh.” Stan paused. “I never see her.”

“Well,” said Kyle, “why would you?”

“I don’t know,” said Stan. “She lives nearby? We’ve known her forever?”

“Cartman lives nearby and we never see _him_ ,” Kyle insisted.

“Yeah, but he’s voluntarily sequestered himself, you know, because he thinks you’d sue him for molesting your children and extort him for 10 million dollars? Or something?”

“I could never really follow the thread of that whole thing,” said Kyle. “Anyway, that fat sack of shit lives with his mother, so, what’s he gonna do with 10 million dollars?” He paused. “Though some days I think 10 million bucks would sure help _us_ out! Since, you know, we’ll have to put three kids through college. I’m not really in the mood to pay for all that college, anyway.”

“Why not?” Stan asked.

“Because our children are little shits,” Kyle cried. “That’s why!”

“I don’t know about that,” said Stan. “I think they’re pretty cool.”

“What are we getting ourselves into?” Kyle asked. “ _Three_ kids?”

“I hope it’s a girl,” Stan remarked.

“Yeah.” Shrugging, Kyle curled up against Stan’s chest. “I can’t do any more boys. No more boys.”

“I love our boys,” Stan said. He was clearly tired. “But I want a baby girl. I want to put bows in her hair.”

“Me too,” said Kyle, “though that’s very, like, gender-normative. But I want to put bows in her hair, too.”

“We could have just put bows in Noah’s hair,” said Stan. “Do you think he’d still let us?”

“God, no, absolutely not.” Kyle clutched at Stan, rubbing his cheek against Stan’s hairy chest. “He’s too butch. He likes boy stuff too much. Not that Legos are boy or girl stuff, specifically, just — ugh, I’m so tired.”

“Then let’s get to sleep so we can be ready when he bangs on the door tomorrow.”

“Oh god,” Kyle groaned. “I know.”

Stan reached over and turned out the light. “I love you,” he said. “Crazy day.”

“Crazy day,” Kyle agreed. “Crazy life.”

“Huh?”

Kyle thought about responding, but he was too tired.


End file.
